Nobody Can See Him

Nobody can see him. Nobody will ever. His identity befuddles even the sharpest minds. What once was will never be again. Not that they would want to. His self-loathing would bring the strongest to their knees.

He needed a little time to wake up. It was going to be a rough morning. Head pounding, the drums of a thousand potlucks, his once coherent thoughts coursed through his brain in fragmented bits of shrapnel. Beside him, the girl looked at him intently, scaring him as she had been sound asleep only a split second before.

His veins were pulsing out of his head. Olivia could not fathom the amount of alcohol that must be sliding through the red and white blood cells. It seemed they had only been out for an hour or two, but his consumption could have beat any red blooded Irishman any day. Someday she would find him in a putrid puddle of vile mess, breathless and cold, but today was not that day. Where was she when he was getting high? We were getting high? No, that couldn’t be right. Drugs weren’t her thing. They never had been. But random flashes came back from their short, turned long, night out. Lines, more lines, drinks, bottles, pills, piles, came rushing back in a flurry and knocked her head back to her pillow.

“Oh God, what did I do?”

James looked at Olivia again after a brief staring contest with the wall. She had muttered something, but his pounding head wouldn’t let him process the, inevitably, useless words that had come from her mouth. God he hated her. Why did he have to keep calling her up every time he needed a good time? Her homeliness did not bother. Just looking at her sexy curves made him stir. It was the way her personality drilled into his head every time they were together. If only she would shut up once in a while and just enjoy the scene, whichever that was at the moment, for a moment.

“You say something?”

Olivia looked over in disgust. The asshole had made her do things she swore she would never do. What else, then, had she done without knowing? The filth that swam through her brain gave her an instant migraine. Great.

“No, I’m just trying to piece together last night,” she sighed. “What did we get up to?”

untitled one

The magnet on the fridge looked back at me with a void stare that left me feeling emptier than I had for months. How had I ended up sitting on the counter, looking at the ugly mug of the cartoon grandmother saying whatever witty quip she was, I’ll never know.

My disposition, viewed from the outside, would only show a very normal man in a very normal room. Yes, normal was such a subjective word. Normal to me may be extremely abnormal to you, but it’s my reality, and so I felt the compulsive need to explain.

“I grew up in a small town, but didn’t everyone? We weren’t rich, but was anyone? Maybe comparing my life to yours and everyone else’s isn’t something that will get us further through my story. A snail's pace, sure, but would you like me to continue and get through this, or should I just stop now and suffer the consequences like polite society assumes we should? If I’m to go on I don’t want interruptions, no breaks, if you need to use the head, feel free to do it now because I’m not stopping once I’ve started.”

My shoes, just so, crept up the refrigerator to waist level and rested there. If I was going to start this story I was going to have to be comfortable. The shirt hung open, the fan blowing it back and forth like the stained white sheet on a maid’s line. The shoe prints up the fridge grasped my attention from grandma’s droll jibe, the one that had fascinated me for a little too long, and suddenly had me fixated on their mesmerizing pattern. Left, right, left, and back again, all encompassed within a beautiful shape meant only for those genius enough to figure out its code.

“I wasn’t one of those,” I continued on, thinking the conversation in my head was still the one I was having. “Or maybe I was.”

It was blurry, a stained glass window on open eyes, and I was only just coming back to what one might think was reality. The prints caught my attention once more and I faded back to that land that only children sometimes reach.

“You know, the one where children play, the butterflies swarm, and Jesus makes everyone warm and fuzzy.”

My banter drifted back and forth between the room and my head as a sound to the left brought me back. Shit, I had to keep with it to make it through this. Looking around, my current situation forced a little throw-up to make its way up my oesophagus, pool in my mouth for a quick minute, and just as fast make its way back down my throat. At least my mind was nearly back to normal. I gave a little shake to the old noggin and continued on.

So you probably are sitting there in total wonder and amazement asking yourself why you’re here. I could tell you, sure, but that would be getting ahead of myself. I should probably continue to tell you about the childhood, if you might call it that, which brought me, and you, to my humble abode.

“I always thought my upbringing was a typical one. Damn it! There’s that word again, typical. What’s that? I said normal before? I meant to say normal… Whatever, the fact that you looked at me like that makes me want to stop my story and continue with our previous event. No? Fine, I’ll continue. What I meant to say was normal, and it was normal enough to me.”

The woman in the chair, her hair matted, her clothes torn, her legs shredded like cheese, looked at me with wild fear. Blood dripped as if a faucet left oh, so slightly on, down to the floor and curdled its way towards my shoes. The stains running up the fridge, each perfect shoe imprint, told a story of its own, as bones in a grave might. Her perfect hair, a once perfect golden sun blonde, was shredded and mostly on the floor. What was left and had once been so beautiful was now dishevelled and looked more like a dirty lhasa apso.

The knife, a dull, rusted, Sous-Chef style, was lying listfully on the floor next to her feet. Yellow strands of rope, the good stuff, not that acrylic garbage, mixed in with her hair making the piles seem to almost glisten.

I ignored her, or rather, I’m not sure if I even noticed her. I wasn’t even sure if she had looked at me. An outside observer may have seen that moment and decided that I was talking to myself, but I was sure, if not positive, that she had said something to me. So enticed with my own voice, my own story, the outside had quickly become something far too surreal for me to even comprehend. I was still transfixed on the outcome of my self-traipsing shoes that I couldn’t be bothered with the wench. I had quickly become disassociated with my current state of affairs, which was to be expected, but I felt the need to continue and try to justify my actions.

“You see, my upbringing was usual. I was an only child. Sure, my Dad beat me, my Mom abused drugs a fair amount, yet together they did the best they could.

[To be continued? I don't know.]

My Brain

Frightful. That could be the only word to describe everything about everything. It wasn’t just that the walls were breathing, or the floor was moving, but the simple fact that the chemicals in his brain convinced him of how real it was. He didn’t want to believe what he was seeing yet the unconvincing realist side of the tortured rotting piece of meat inside his head was on a downward slope while losing an uphill battle. The hit of acid that he had popped… wait, he didn’t do drugs; apparently, they weren’t a part of, or necessary in, his life. Yet the only thing that could explain the psychedelic mind-fuck in front of him would have been a grand hallucinogen of 60’s proportion.

He peered left. The couch was speaking to him in tongues, none of which he understood or even pretended to. To his right the wall, just moments before heaving air into their lungs and blowing it straight back at him with the force of hurricanes, was now speaking back to the couch, yet it seemed not in the same language. The argument between the plaster and the leather, obvious to him somehow, was about to explode in a fit of fury as if to prove which of the two was actually in control of his current altered state. Stuck in the middle there was little to do, helpless, and so he endured for as long as his will might let him. Hoping only to survive, with reverence of the intensity of such formidable foes and at the same time, condemnation for his inability to confront either, his head tucked between his legs as a dogs tail might. A glance between his legs towards the kitchen told him that the refrigerator’s temper would not hold beneath its puke-green skin for much longer. He closed his eyes hoping it would all go away, as so many things did in his life as long as he ignored them, yet the battle continued on, no matter how hard his lids squeezed together. And as he squeezed, they bled. And they bled. Then they bled some more. Was it possible for eyes to bleed from squeezing them together? He wasn’t so sure. Yet bleed on they did. And as the blood began to pour out of him, nay, roar out of him as a river might in early spring after break-up, the noise too became a thunderous god that threatened to explode his eardrums. And, of course, it did. Left helpless writhing on the floor, as might a child, he let out a screak loud enough to drown the offending noise, which had grown into a constant reverberation a hundred decibels above anything the human ear might handle. Yet he bellowed still louder so that the wall and couch stopped in mid-sentence and the refrigerator, obvious from the lower hum emitting from the kitchen, had cooled down and lost its temper. And with that, he lay on the floor, the blood running from his eyes and the liquidity of his brain seeping from his ears onto the ground beside him, and the entire world was black.

2

“Is he going to be alright?” Carl looked in through the window to the tiny hospital room holding the prisoner.

Dr. Yansic peered in over Carl’s shoulder to peer through the plastic window at the slumped body on the floor. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s been like this since he was admitted three days ago. Apparently he just wandered in from the street preaching the word of God and condemning the sinners to hell.”

David

The day was bitter cold on that late October morning when he awoke. Although the temperature was not but a few degrees below freezing, the pain ripping through his marrow and the icebergs bashing their way through his veins kept him huddled under the safety of his blankets for more time than he could afford. The incessant coughing and the blackened phlegm expunging itself from his lungs each and every morning told him it was time to put the plastic over the windows and prepare for a severe winter. He knew that come October this faux sickness overtook him every year and had come to learn that the coming season’s weather could be gauged by the severity of his cough. Although he didn’t quite believe in the voodoo of this magic, nonetheless it happened every year.

David lived in a cozy house. Well, snug enough on a warm fall day, but the first days of winter weather wracked his body, as he wasn’t accustomed to the bleak, death-like biting. He often found it funny that in only seven months since the snow had melted the winter before a person could so quickly forget how much they hated that season. The summer months, scorching, searing, and so near to what he imagined Death Valley would be like if he were brave enough ever to venture there, was in its extremes in the Northern valley he lived in. That burning season endured for far longer than could possibly keep one feeling comfortable, or human. And after the long persistent assault of the Southern sun, around the third week of September, the torturous ball of fire would finally relent, leaving David to revel in the glory of the cool breezes, lazy evenings on the deck with his favorite glass of chardonnay, and the crisp mornings that brought out the best in his mood.

Of course, this day wasn’t anything like any of those paradigm periods. This day, in all of its glory, was far bleaker. Pulling his withering body out of bed, David noticed the dirty floor, neglected, full of dead leaves and ageless dirt. The mental note to find that broom of his would leave his head as soon as it parked itself there, his head at times as flaky as his scalp. At one time, the dirt piles had been negligible. He had lived with a life-long companion for only half of his life. She had taken care of his every whim, been at his disposal, and never ignored a need. He, of course, reciprocated, being as old fashioned in his romance and treatment of her as she was in her servitude.

A glance out the window showed that the snow-line had crept its way down the hills as to be close enough to shiver from the powder with ones proverbial self. David’s legs reached the floor and gave a loud groan, almost as loud as the one the floor gave back to him. His house often spoke to him in this way, telling him it felt as old and worn out as he did on his one of his good days. David enjoyed the conversations and never left the house waiting for a reply. Whether it was his body that answered, or just his soft spoken voice, he could feel the pleasure the house emanated during these short and lonely conversations. His eyes fixed once more on the serenity of the landscape outside.

“Is it just that after these long years I’ve become so accustomed to the land and the house that we are one?” he wondered. The creeping snow preparing to engulf the valley floor reminding him that in the not so distant future he would near the closing stages of life, reach his finish line, and then recede back to where he had come from.

This, of course, was ludicrous speculation. To be sixty years old and believe that life was ending was not only nonsensical, but it displayed the exuberant outlook on life that David possessed. Naturally, with his companion now gone and the lackluster décor and state of his dwellings, it was not an unconventional train of thought for an aging feeble mind to have.

He quickly pulled his attention away from the window as to break the depressing thoughts and focus on something more comforting; his morning ritual. Ritual may have been a strong word, or an incorrect one in his mind. David had been doing the same thing every morning for the last umpteen years, ever since he could remember. The contentment from the simple act of relieving himself, showering, shaving, and dressing in the morning always helped to take his mind off of any troubles. This morning was no different than any of the rest. The steam from his shower rose from below, elevating into his nostrils, pushing aside anything that had built up the night before and cleared the way for the fresh October air to enter in. He finished up his shower in short order, unable to disregard the heights his mood had reached, even higher than usual, and stepped out of the tub to dry off. Normally, or as normal as could be conceivably believed by anyone but himself, he took the time shaving to talk to his wife. He didn’t say anything which might be construed as abnormal, he only talked to her as if she were there; fully knowing she had died many years before. This may have been the reason that he so enjoyed getting ready in the morning. This morning, though, something was different, not quite right.

Looking deep into the mirror David could see a few more grey hairs. It may have been better to convey this thought as he saw a few less brown hairs, but he was still holding on to what was left of his youth by not noticing that the number of darker hairs was now down into the double digits. The lines on his face, which seemed to have deepened overnight, were now craters and caverns stretching from his eyes to his ears, his nose and mouth to his nape. Had he really aged so terribly since yesterday morning? The elevated mood dropped considerably. His perplexed eyes stared back at him, the frown upon his face deepening the cracks to resemble chasms without bottom. His life, not surprisingly, hadn’t been an easy one. He had worked hard. He had worked extremely hard in fact, and the image staring back at him was not an ethereal being full of deceit and lies but only the face of what would have been expected from any individual with a history such as his. The soul looking intently back from the mirror though, was one full of energy and life; a soul with the face of a twenty-five year old and the mind of a mature twenty year old. David took comfort in this. Outward appearances not bothering him before would not start now.

He took his sorry self to the kitchen after dressing. The woodstove near the door was clearly an obscure resting place for such a vital piece in a ranch style dwelling. While the living room and bedrooms were not so far from the kitchen, they were nevertheless more like restaurant coolers in the colder months than living spaces. David made his way to the stack of wood sitting in waiting next to the stove and grabbed a few pieces of kindling to get things going. Although he did this same ceremony every morning when necessary, he did not feel as though it was a part of The Ritual, possibly because he took no pleasure in it. On his way to the refrigerator, he stole a glance out of the kitchen window, which faced the same picturesque white hills he had seen earlier from his room. The warming of the sun, the blessed sun, had pushed the snowline up only a few feet, but the retreat warmed David as much as it did the freshly revealed ground. His relation to the recoil of the snow from such a powerful foe was only one more reason the feelings he had this morning chilled his core and the now burning fire could brawl with, but never win. Again, David pulled his gaze away from the mesmerizing tranquility of the hills.

“What odd behavior,” he thought, “certainly not the usual me.”

He shook off the peculiar air clinging to his body and continued on to the refrigerator. The disappointment of the wastelands that lay inside upon opening overcame him like a gust of wind might overtake a browning leaf at this time of year.

“Dammit.”

He didn’t want to run to the store so early in the morning, but without any butter or margarine he wouldn’t be able to cook his habitual artery clogging bacon and eggs with toast. Shortly before her death Sally had made him vow to start taking care of himself. While he had, he just couldn’t give up his breakfast because other than the morning ritual, it was now about the only thing that kept him going all day. Skipping breakfast was like forgetting to breath for the day, his body shut itself down shortly after eleven and he was useless from then on; not that he did much lately anyway. A thought then occurred to him. He would smear the grease from the bacon on the toast. This would be a suitable replacement. As unhealthy as it was, his day wouldn’t be quite right without his toast. His mind ventured back to the day his wife had sat him down at the very kitchen table that faced his back at this moment.

“David, I know in all your stubbornness you won’t like what I’m about to say,” she started.

He knew that when she started out any exchange of words between the two of them that he wouldn’t. And she knew full well that to use this opening guaranteed that the little roadblocks would go up in the opening of his snail-like cochleae leaving him as deaf to her words as the wall might be, yet she started her “serious” talks with him in this manner anyway.

“David, I’m concerned.” Here we go. “I know you love me, and I know you want to be around for a long time and grow old with me, but I’m worried about your health.”

“Please, Sally, don’t start with this. I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine now, but I can’t say that it will always be this way. You’ve led a hard life and with all the smoking you do, the drinking, and the food you put into that body of yours, I can’t say that you’ll be fine six months from now.”

The sirens started to wail as the miniature gates within his ears started to move into position. The glazed stare a sure sign that the gates would soon be beyond the point where they might be easily lifted again. “Listen, Sally, I’m fine, can we just leave it at that? There’s nothing wrong with me!” And with that the sirens stopped their call and the gates closed completely. David was now in his own world and heard little, if not nothing, of the conversation that followed. Occasionally he would nod his head, seeing that her mouth was still moving, but as to what she had said, he couldn’t recall.

As irony would have it, Sally died of heart disease not six months later. That dismal day was six years ago and he had a deep sense of remorse for his actions toward her ever since. She had only been trying to help and if he had listened, if he had only tried, she may have tried along with him and been here with him still today. The crackling of the bacon in the pan pulled him back to the present day. Flipping the bacon, his eyes welled up with salty solution and he began to cry. The unusual emotions of the day finally catching up with him in a torrent of water surging down his cheeks, catching in the cracks and crevices, and finally making their way to his shirt and the floor, both of which were quickly becoming saturated. Not knowing what was wrong with him today, David rapidly swallowed as hard as he dared, hoping he might choke back his tears, and headed to the door to get the morning paper. The speed at which his day was heading downhill since his morning ritual had apparently overtaken any sense he might have still possessed at his age, or so he thought. The fresh air at the door helped to stymie the explosion of emotion that had overtaken as quickly as it had come on. He snatched the paper off the porch as he remembered the greasy toast and now blackened eggs. Laying the plate on the table next to his newspaper he prepared a cup of pressed coffee as hurriedly as possible as cold eggs was near the top of his pet peeve list.

David sat down, his eggs in front of him, his coffee to the left, and the newspaper above the plate. The paper’s front page screamed of disaster in the world. Far off places were facing suicide bombers, warring factions starting civil movements, and fire and drought. His audible sigh displayed his content with the little world in which he lived. The biggest local event to grace the cover of the paper might be a coyote killing some chickens or a sheep, or even that the church was having a bake sale. He could not comprehend the reasoning behind the atrocities that happened in other parts of the world and his country. And with that thought, a blockage in an artery in his brain built up beyond its elastic properties and burst. Within a second, his vision blurred and was gone, his hearing following swiftly. The broken blood vessel sent blood gushing into the cavity, filling his head as rapidly as the gutters during a Northwest downpour. Before the signals of pain could pass through his receptors, David’s head dropped face forward into his plate of food. His body, still sitting hunched over in his chair, seemed to be praying, paying homage to the food that had actively played a part in his death.

Outside, the North winds came in with a flurry of force, bringing along with them the clouds that would eventually bring the snow, which would then slowly creep down the hillside to the valley below. The house, eager for conversation and reassurance when the wind blew, creaked and moaned under the pressure. With no soul inside to answer, the trees replied in perfect time, as though the two were old friends.

38th and Davis

Parsnip, rosemary, thyme, and garlic. The smells wafted through the grated ceiling of the market below. All around the market people were busy, grabbing at this and that, pushing those on their left and right, waiting and hurriedly watching for the next big bargain to pop up in front of them. The place was lively on Saturday mornings in the late summer, the Yuppies there to find the next greatest thing, the Rich on the prowl for a good deal, and the poor also on constant alert for a next-to-nothing price. The differences between each of the classes, though, meant nothing to the dealers who lined the walls and aisles, greedily taking all that they could from each and every visitor.

I suppose it’s a living, pinching a few extra pennies from each sale as to bring home that extra dollar or two at the end of the day, but not one that I wished upon anyone, including myself. Within those passageways were treasures that only the most committed of shoppers would find. The long, cluttered paths between storefronts left no sign of such deals, but deals there were to be had. If one who was so inclined to do so were to peek behind those curtains to see all the glories that they held, the rest of the market and curtains would long be forgotten. For behind such curtains lay the very dearest of treasures brought by each vendor. Such treasures would normally have been stowed away at home, now, only being removed from their dark unknown places in hopes of a great trade with another merchant as to improve the vendor’s wealth. Of course, with each vendor so secretly guarding their cache it was hardly feasible that a transaction would ever occur.

The days of trade had been this way as far back as anyone might have imagined. There were not many new merchants in the time since I had moved into the loft down the street, and not many had left in that time either. The market left everyone who visited feeling fully satisfied by days end. When rollers shut windows and carts were packed, I would leave my spot at the atrium above all the hustle and go back to my flat.

The Seasons

The season’s change without notice, time stands still like those at the bus on a hot summer’s day. The gargoyles and their perch erode as time passes on. Unable to do something about it, not from a lack of concern but from a lack of moving parts, they stare into the blue without concern. The pigeons peck at the cobblestones hoping for the last grain that may be stuck between the cracks, not realizing that they long ago found the last one and would not find another until the old man came back around. Down the way, a dog roamed from trashcan to trashcan in anticipation of scraps from the dinners of the night before, not fully realizing that garbage collection had been early this morning and there would be no scraps today. And, of course, there was the cat down on the corner. The cat perched on the bench day after day, waiting for one of those silly pigeons to lose its awareness and its life in the same moment. The cat had won in the past, not often, but it had, and it waited for another chance to show off its prowess.

It wouldn’t be The Square if the people that visited it didn’t make it that. The animals loved The Square, but the people loved it more. They came in droves, to look, to touch, and to feel the essence of The Square. It was a magical place, and each of them felt it when they passed through, always taking the time to stop and let the energy pass through their bodies before heading off to their final destination – work, home, school, shopping, whichever it might be. There were times when they left their mark before moving on. One might carve their name into the bench, while another would just leave trash on the ground to mark their spot, and yet others would only leave behind a part of their memories so that they might return one day and collect that little piece of self. The Square was kept moderately crime-free at night by being well lit, yet even before the lights had been installed little went on after the sun had gone down. The crime during the day, on the other hand, sometimes became unbearable as the pickpockets and muggers targeted the tourists who came to enjoy The Square.

The basketball court off center to the left of the benches was kept clean by the youth that loitered there, their cleanliness a clear indication of a good upbringing, better than those who left their mark with the trash they felt they no longer needed. The origin of such a safe feeling might have been the traffic that went through The Square, or the many lights, but was more than likely because the windows from all of the flats surrounding the four sides of The Square continuously had eyes peering out to monitor the goings on of the people within The Square. The old and retired, the young and bored, and the middle aged and disabled watched on as days passed and seasons changed, noting how the more the people in The Square evolved, the more they seemed to not change at all.

And evidently, me. I sat in my window, watching the people pass through, stop to feel the glory of the sun and the breeze, and then press on. I had been here for too many years to count, yearning to be any one of those people down in The Square, yet incapable of doing so. My legs, or what was left of them, lay in my wheel chair like spaghetti, invoking little motivation and much self-pity. I sat in my window above The Square, watching and waiting for something to pass by that only fate knew. Maybe nothing would come of my proverbial spy game, my glance at the commonality of life, my insatiable need to fit in with those below. Yet, nothing could stop me from believing that something might happen that would change my life forever, make me the man that I longed to be, and, if luck would have it, remove me from my prison of denial and isolation.

My Dream

I walk into the room expecting to see you, but instead your entourage greets me. I couldn’t have been more wrong about you, and that grows more apparent to me by the minute. If only you would have wanted me to be yours. But, instead you want to be your own. Stuck on yourself, in love with yourself, only thinking of yourself, my life grows wearily boring as I listen to more about you. Maybe you could have loved me, maybe. I tend not to think so though, as you were the only one that looked at you. The mirror, your effervescent personality bubbling over at your very thought of how great you are. I would tend to disagree, but that’s just me. I follow you around the room and wonder what it is that people see in you. Person after person ogles you, anticipating any attention that they can get out of you. Sadly, you walk past, the anguish in their eyes shining brighter than their obvious love for you. The using of people leads to hurt feelings, and hurt feelings lead to plotting and planning, revenge is sweet they say. You didn’t give me my fifteen minutes. All you had to do was have a photo taken with me, but you refused, instead, involving yourself narcissistically in everything you do. Yet you are blind to the outcome festering within those who you have hurt. What is given shall soon be taken.

Curtains

Blackened clouds
Fields of decaying remains
Clouded foresight
Spaces filled with barrenness
Caricatures engulfing
The last of the collection
I’ve let myself fall
The prowess of deception

At Odds

Bobby and Joe had lived side by side for as long as either of them could remember. They were both typical kids in the beginning, mischievous little critters who loved their friends, their family, and their country. They went to school every day, feigned interest in the subjects that bored even the most astute student, and did what was necessary to get by. The only time when either child shone was when they played, for play they did, fast and hard. Every day there was a squabble of one sort or another between the two; the other kids expected it and stayed out of the way. In fact, most of the other kids had stopped hanging out with Bobby and Joe, their rough-play enough as to eventually hurt someone. And so it became that the other kids stayed in their own houses and played, never venturing out of their yards, although occasionally Bill, the boldest of the bunch, sometimes considered too brazen by his peers, and frankly, the youngest, would find his way to the playground to referee the present contest which Bobby and Joe had gotten into. Obviously, either Bobby or Joe would then turn their congenital competitiveness on poor Bill, leaving the modest youngster to fend for himself.

Bobby came from a strong family. From generation to generation, his family had been prominent in the community, which is why Bobby’s pride was almost unbearable and he could not be one to lose. He did not mind the consequences of his actions as long as the results of his conduct resulted in him winning. On the occasion that Joe beat him, Bobby could not face anyone for days, only hiding in his room as to avoid the humiliation of is failure. Bobby’s family understood and even encouraged this behaviour, as they had lived the same way throughout their own lives and knew the same shame. A sad and pathetic trait to lay on a child, but it was one that had been passed on since time on end. What is more, it was not only Bobby’s family that had felt this, but all who came from the same line was prone to the gene and this flaw left a mark on the lineage of Bobby’s genealogy. Were it not for the simple fact that old traditions were passing and new ones entering, Bobby might have been more violent than he was. And so, Bobby continued to try to humiliate his playmate every day, in hope of sparing himself from the same. The banter between the two was never mean, never condescending, never hateful, at least not on the surface.

Joe’s family was almost precisely and truthfully the exact opposite from Bobby’s. His whole existence was based on the morals that his family thrust upon him ever since he was able to understand. These morals, while not flawless, were the foundation of his family’s strength, something that was lacking in most families in these times. The implication is not that Bobby’s family’s morals were less in any way, or that they were not the basis for his own family’s beliefs, yet Joe’s family’s line was considered deeper and stronger. And so the competition, which unbeknownst to the two boys had been going on for generations, raged on. The struggle within the bond left both boys feeling elated at times and despondent at others. A sure sign that there was no winner in the pointless game each was sure they could win.

A Beginning to an End

I couldn’t say when this feeling had barged into my life. One week, two weeks, a month, I did not know. I was the quintessence of someone with demented ideas and how they could be brought forth in the worst of times. My mind worked in mysterious ways, sort of like God. Well, not really like God and not any more mysterious than anyone else’s, I’m sure, but enough to cause me to go over the edge. I didn’t like the person I was, my mind playing constant tricks, turning me this way and that, using my body like a toy. I couldn’t help myself either, and that is what scared me the most.

I should say that I liked a large number of things, only I made sure that it was not obvious to any. That was the key. If no one knew me, knew my anguish, knew my pain, then they would not be able to use it against me, driving further down into the rut of my life. And that’s just what it was, a rut. As sad as that may seem, the rut seemed good at times, almost as if it were nothing more than a scratch in the surface, but like it or not, it was still a rut. I hadn’t had a time when I was truly happy and that may have been the problem. Thinking back hard, as my memory is mostly shambles of fragmented jelly, I can call to mind instances where I appeared happy, but those times only lasted for a day; my wedding day; my son’s birth. The disallowed any long term, over-a-day-long pleasure, where I could enjoy life and take it for what it was, an exhilarating joyride of an experience.

And so the war raged on. And with that, I lived through the days, attempting to be something that I wasn’t, my psyche barely holding on to what was left of my original personality. The wares of chemicals raged as I attempted to be the kind of person that had left my mother’s womb, the person that loved and was loved, lived through the short-term slumps meant only to occur so that transition could take place in my life and to move forward and revel in the good times. All of this was fruitless for an individual such as myself which made my situation, and current dilemma, that much more scary.

I had lived with my wife for thirteen years, producing two beautiful kids and a beautiful bond of loathing and hatred. We attempted to live as civilized humans should, playing out the game, attending parties, furthering our careers as to enjoy a fruitful life filled with the luxuries so often lusted after by people. We did what was necessary to live a good life, one in which we were able to support our children in a way that would make any mammal proud. We, of course, did not push the limits of society; we lived within the bounds, her fully, me to the extent that my rut would allow. I can remember times when I loathed her for all that she was, socialite, cosmopolitan, and all the things I would not and could not be. The tough times for all of us, which coincidentally came when my rut was the deepest, led to a stronger bond. The bond between her and me, naturally, was never stronger, ever weaker, ever decaying, like the glue that weakly held it together. That wasn’t to say that there were no times when we didn’t get along, certainly we did, but her stubbornness and my rut forbade us to continue in the fashion in which we lived a s a family unit. And so on that cold September, when the sun was low in the sky, the leaves turning rusty, and the wind whisking through the body, leaving a chill deep within our bones, our marriage of thirteen years came to a short and brutal conclusion. Again, the chemicals in my body raged, filling my brain with anguish and anger to no end, which left me in a state of both denial and distress.

Loneliness

Tell me your name. The icicles that form around your face remind me of building snow forts in the winters of my youth. The freckle next to your left eye is identical to one a girl had in high school. Don’t I know you from somewhere? Have we met? These are all pointless. Lines have never worked and they never will. The sad part is that the men in this place have used them all tonight, and will continue to use them for many nights to come. They will still be single in the end. They will not understand why. Yet, I am one of these men. I am here, searching, hoping, using, and lusting. I don’t believe I am the bottom of the barrel. I may not be the smartest person, or the best looking, but I am something of a prodigy. This is to say that I can do for you all the things that you need done, not just the things you need, but also the things you want. The desires I can satisfy are but limitless. The pain I bring, the baggage, are of normal amounts, but I’m almost sure you would expect that by now. I stand by this bar, hoping that you might come by and say hi, afraid to do so myself. You are the one for me, karma tells me so, fate has dealt its cards, my heart jumps and the butterflies attack. All of this I want to say to you, to let you know exactly how special you are, my lover, my partner. Everything will be peaches and cream if only you would come over and say hi to me. Everything will be happily ever after if only you would come over and say hi to me. Everything will be every fairy tale you have ever read, if only you would come over and say hi to me.

Then the darkness comes. The creeping over me intensifies all of my senses to the point of sensory euphoria. I smell you. You may be across the room but I can smell the pheromones you are willing my way. The conversation you are having with your friends, as mundane as it may seem to me, clearly elates you unequivocally. And I see your expression. Each sweet movement of every wrinkle of every line in your face stands out to me. Oh, the beauty, the grace, you move so smoothly, your silky hair swaying back and forth as you sway to the music. Music can move the soul they say, and, it seems, you can move mine. I defer my escape into the night where I would normally find myself at home watching those infomercials that sell all of those useless things that I can’t seem to get enough of. Instead, I continue to stand by the bar and watch you, smell you, and hear you. I want to taste you and touch you as to fulfill all of the senses, but that must wait. In the meantime I drink, watch, wait, and drink some more. I anticipate that you will enjoy all of these things about me as well. If you don’t, I cannot know what I will do with myself, to myself. I feel self-pity for a moment but quickly realize that this potential turn of events is of no consequence as destiny dictates that you will love me, become entangled in the preordained bind that guides us. And so I take my chances, for this is all I can do. The reward is more precious than I would have guessed. The sweet melody of your voice as you reject me makes me bones shiver. It’s all right though, this is how it should happen and you just don’t know it yet. Rejection is the first step in our relationship and soon you will realize the potential of fate and succumb to it.

We agree to meet after closing time because you want to spend the rest of the night with your friends before we start our intense relationship. This isn’t the way I had planned our first encounter, yet given tonight’s circumstances, it will have to do. I wait outside the club for an hour, planning the rest of the night, planning the rest of our relationship. The waiting feels like a year and kills me deep inside. Then the people are walking out, and I am happy; you are not there, and I am not happy. This isn’t how our future is supposed to be, a missed connection and a lack of communication. I run through the alley, along the side of the club, around the back, searching, waiting, and there you are heading to a car. I must have just missed you. I hear you mutter something under your breath as I approach and know that it is words of lust, just as the thoughts in my head are. I swear to you that you have agreed to have coffee, and I know that is when you will see the connection that our souls hold. You wave for your friends as we walk to the late night coffee shop down the street. Yet why wave so frantically? You mustn’t yell my dear, the streets are loud enough at closing time, and we don’t want to disturb the neighbors.

And I wake. I don’t know where I am. Oh, I’m in my bed. But where are you? And of course I recall. You turned out to be like all the rest. All of these horrible bitches who couldn’t surrender their souls to the fateful love that exists between us. The ones who rejected me; nay, no one rejects me, you rejected the predestined connection. And so I deal with you as I have dealt with those before you. I lay in bed and weep, not for the lost soul; not for the lost life; only for the loneliness and the clothes you ruined with the devil’s liquid which kept you alive. I met you on that fortunate night and will not forget you anytime soon. At least not until my next soul mate.

Awaiting

I do not know the problem. I have not seen the meaning of the medium. Perhaps you have mistaken me for someone who knows a lot about nothing. I prefer to think I know a little about a lot instead. Does that mean you know a lot about nothing? Or maybe it is that you know nothing about a lot. That could be it. The complement should be there. Or course, rarely it is. You, on the one hand, like; I, on the other, do not. Relations are funny that way. Why is it that you are here? Were you invited? Was my world so important that you would have liked to come in and see for yourself that, in face, it was not? I am guessing the latter is the truth, as only I know that it is not the perfect place I make it to be. When will the world listen to reason? I have a feeling it will not happen. They will not know that I have been lost on them. They will not know that they have been displaced from the society that they so preciously consider their own. For this I know; that I am but one in a world that consists of nothing and to vanquish or conquer is inconsequential to the outcome. A world where those that surround me know little of me, where those who oppose me know more, and those who adore me know only what I will let them. They shall come and on that day we will see that it was not the end, but in fact a day that will release us all to be whom we were meant to be. Until that day, I sit excitedly waiting, as I know that my anguish will not be in vain.

Static on TV

The soothing pressure brought me the pleasure only the most severe acute pain could stymie. I looked to the sky for the last time, as I knew that I would not endure until time had passed the third moon.

For the first year, the elusiveness of my thoughts had conjured emotions I believed to have been lost to me as a child. A man did not feel this way. A man was strong, detached, and ruthless. A man was to be the provider for the family, bring home what was needed, and care for them so that not one could say that the family ever felt the hardship of destitution. The thoughts, yes, the thoughts. They eluded me at whim. I saw them in my dreams, while I woke, and throughout my day. I could feel it when I was close, and then, yes, they escaped me to live the rest of their lives for someone else. The atrociousness of my quandary, left me wondering if I would not lose my mind and, like the thoughts that evade and pervade at the same time, need to live the rest of my life for someone else. Might it possibly be for a doctor in an institution for the insane, or criminally insane, or perhaps a circus as the lap dog that does those wonderful tricks? I did not know. And, as I pondered this, another of those dreadful thoughts inched closer, waiting, watching, examining my every move as to find the opportune time to overpower me.

I must forget about this. For over two years I have had the pleasure of not having the malevolent thoughts attempt to take me. This could not be more precious to one who has endured such chaos than to have but one second of peace. And, being such a person, I turn my thoughts foolishly to the second year.

Ah, the second year. Like hell in a hand basket delivered to my front door by Satan himself. I endured more than a man should for the second year. While the outside appearance of the second year may have seemed normal to the average passer-by, the truth was that I no longer enjoyed the game that upset so bad, yet still made my life as comfortably miserable as one who enjoys masochism might hope for. The transition, which was not apparent at the time, did not feel like transition at all, but instead, like a slow moving cancer that crept up upon you and slowly ate the insides until nothing remained. The thoughts, which had originally come as sudden as winter, realized the futility of their original angle, and instead came from a different direction. I was unsure if they were there to help, or to hinder, as they had never fully reached me, but they now snuck up on me, reaching as far as the back of my leathery old brain, and as far forward as the tip of my tongue. I could not keep the there, for if I tried, they would attack my brain and leave me in the type of pain one would only wish upon their worst enemy. And so it was, I was left to wither away, only to be remembered by those who knew me for the slight and slow plummet into my current state.

Yes, my current state. Or what you might call, “now.” A sad sight to those who knew me, and those who did not would not care, as I have sadly come to realize. I enjoy the times alone, where the thoughts may not touch me. The vile thoughts, the iniquitous thoughts, the thoughts that have plagued me for years, and only now they have failed their all-important talk. They may not touch me. They may not intrude into my brain to dance around my tongue, or stay in the back of my brain, or sit on the top of my head. They may not violate me anymore. For in my suit of armor I sit. With this armor none can harm the all-mighty, for I am the one who is in control from this point forward. This fine jacket of special powers tells me so; the special meals tell me so; the ever-powerful static which emanates so freely from the four glowing white walls and has bequeathed the power up me tells me so.

So, thoughts, if you dare, enter my lair, enter to find the able, enter to find your doom. The static shall bring forth justice. The static shall take care of you as it did me. You may not evade the static as you once eluded me. You will not live another day to torture and torment. For the static knows all. The static is my friend. The static is now the protector.

The Calling

The mind bends, ceases, and cracks,

Dementia sets in as another day begins.

I was not always like this; I was great,

And you were supportive before it turned bad.

Now I sit with my thoughts on hold,

Apart from the wind that bustles in total euphoria.

Murk

A gasp escaped me as my sword fell the thirty feet to the crevice’s bottom. This was not a good sign. The vile creature, my brother, lunged at me with his own cold blade of steel in a desperate attempt to steal that which I was born with. In a world where a soul was more important than gold, nature and natural selection played little in the lineage of kings, as those who sought power would rob you of your very soul in an instant just so that they would be one step closer to God. My brother, dear Dietrich, had been so overcome by the speculation of being God’s right hand that he had literally lost his mind sometime ago. In tongues, Dietrich spoke to me, yelling at me, screaming this and that, but all was ignored. I did not know of what he spoke, his insanity had advanced further than I had guessed and the look in his eyes revealing that there was no hope for him.

On the coldest day in winter, I would not have guessed that this would happen to my brother. Our father, who’s papal rights to the throne ensured that he was as close to God as one might get, feared for his life as my brother continued to follow the path to utter madness. Of course, it had started out so innocently, with but a casual conversation between two thinkers. I do not recall the exact details that led to our discovery that a soul taken as an addition to your collection, and those with the most would be higher up in the chain of command, but conclude we did. The long-standing beliefs on how God wanted his children to live in harmony were just that, long-standing beliefs. No one remembered why we believed this and no one had ever thought to question it. So when my brother and I had this great epiphany, we were dumbfounded. Nor surprisingly, our generation this far had uncovered many secrets held within our lands, unearthing ancient civilizations erased from times memory, and finding cures to the most horrible of diseases. This finding though, was far more significant than anyone might have imagined. This was the precise reason that we could not reveal it to another soul. The killing sprees that would ensue would be the destruction of the society we had worked so hard to progress.

From that day forward I had pushed the subject out of mind. To dwell on these thoughts would certainly have driven me past the point of no return to a place where I could no longer be considered that person of reason. I did not think to check my brother, to make sure he felt the same, and to ensure that he would not engage in any further philosophizing on the subject because to do so would be suicide. I did not know that he had not planned to forget our discovery any time soon, nor would he cease thinking and developing further hypothesis. His current attempt at murder was not his first. Earlier today, he had informed me, he had killed our Sister and Mother, although our Mother was not high in God’s lineage, she was still a queen and that must mean something, was his only reason. I had no time for mourning at this point. I would consider it if I got through this attack with all limbs and life intact, the irony of this being that my brother himself had but one hand, losing the other after falling off a horse. That lack of completeness must be what has driven his mind into a state of lunacy. Within the few seconds it took me to contemplate all of this, Dietrich was once again on top of me.

I was struggling for my life and knew that his size was bigger and speed was better than mine. Even if he did only have on hand to fight with, his right gripped the sword fiercely. With that thought I thrust my body to the right and fell the thirty feet to where my sword lay. I knew that it was a very risky move, but the bottom of the crevice was lined with silt dirt from ages of weathering and the impact would kill me, break me, or leave me untouched. I hoped for the latter. That does not mean to say that things worked out as I had hoped. The silt was still hard and my ribs smashed down, cracking, pain jolting up through my body into my brain. The side of my face hit second, and again, cracking, and all I could see was the red of blood rushing up under my broken bone and skin into my eye sockets. I struggled to get up but my efforts were ultimately futile.

The blood filling my sight slowly drained away, leaving me to see my surroundings and able to concentrate enough to hear my brother working his way down the path to the crevice we so often played in as children. I laboriously raised my body from the filth so that I would be able to defend myself against the monster that had replaced my kin. His screams of anger did not deter my determination to complete my last talk. To take the life of another would be something not easily done or forgotten, but the brute that faced me now left me little choice. I reached for my sword, my chest screaming at me in pain, and eventually found it with the tips of my bloodied and blistered fingers. Raising my sword, I could see a slight look of amazement in my brother’s eyes. He did not expect me to get up and defend myself once more. Little did he know? I dug the hilt of the sword into the earth, its point facing God as if it were a finger accusing him of some wrongdoing.

I released my body on top of my sword, letting the sharp blade point to my chest instead of God, hoping it would hit its mark with un-quivering accuracy. My kingdom would not want this lunatic as God’s right hand. The soul of the second son would not be his to take; he would not have such satisfaction. My soul belonged to God and God only, not on could say otherwise. My last thought was that my brother’s surreal scream sounded more demonic than human. The light parted and the gates opened. I had arrived.

The Fruits of Summer

A journey like no other. That is what we called it. Of course, it wasn’t a tenth as far as we made it out to be. John picked me up after dinner as planned. He was always ready for an adventure on a hot summer afternoon, as was I. We hopped on our bikes and rode into the wind, the sweat instantly dripping down our faces from the hot August sun. Block after block we rode on, peddling as hard as we could so that the time until the exciting part of our journey was closer upon us. The traffic today made us scratch our heads. In such heat, a person tended to stay home, but today was different and we guessed that everyone else was on an expedition of his or her own. As we approached the side of the mountain from the south side, we could see the path that scurried up the side and would eventually take us to our final destination. John slammed on his brakes throwing a wall of dirt towards the sky, only landing after it had made it over the ditch. I, of course, not wanting to be outdone, picked up speed before applying my own brakes, hoping to top what I thought of as Johnny’s spectacular feat. I won’t say that I failed horribly.
Johnny lagged behind as I started my way up the side of the mountain on the narrow path. After so many years, I would think the path would be well worn and wide, but I guess people stuck to the path and didn’t venture off of it by even an inch. This made for tricky navigation, but the prize at the end was well worth it. The up and down of the path didn’t phase me in the least, the summer of biking since school let out left my lungs full and ready for hard expansion. I took a chance at turning around to see if John was still behind me. He was, and close, but the glance threw me off the track and I started heading downhill. A few sharp maneuvers around some vegetation and rocks and I was again on my way. Johnny had passed me because of my harebrained attempt to check on my friend, and this meant that he would find the treasure first if I couldn’t find a way to distract him and get in front.
I could sense the tension between the two of us, even though the distance between us was increasing by the minute. Johnny was fiercely competitive and was a very poor loser. I, on the other hand, didn’t mind losing as long as I tried my best and finished what I was out to accomplish. This didn’t mean I was going to wuss out and let him win though. I pumped hard on those plastic peddles as we neared our destination, seeing the prize drove me even harder. Johnny checked over his shoulder to see how close I was and nearly lost the trail himself, his only saving grace being that the trail had widened somewhat. This meant that I was on his tail and he was going to have to fight hard to be the first to our reward. That thought pushed me and I started to inch past John as we were less than a minute away. His height and mass pushed him ahead by a fair margin as he doubled his efforts and we hit the final descent. Unfortunately, I was left eating the dust his big knobby tires kicked up.
My efforts, not surprisingly, were not in vain, as the reward was not just Johnny’s, but both his and mine. The journey that had started no less than thirty minutes ago had come to an end with Johnny and I both jumping our bikes off of the five-foot cliff into the lake at the end of the path. Our prize, which we enjoyed almost every day that summer, was as no other we could experience at eight years old. We were elated with such a simple thing and couldn’t imagine anything that could make us happier. Our journey home was always filled with bragging of who would be first to the prize on our next adventure.

Fire

The sun shines and I believe it to be the answer to the question that has been drilling itself into my brain for more than any amount of time that I prefer to think about. That question, “Will it be you that can bring it all back for me?” has burned into my mind day after day for as long as I can remember. I could not know it would be you, but indeed it is. I realize now that I have seen you before, in a daydream, or could it possibly have been just a dream, most certainly not a nightmare of any sort. It does not matter; you will turn things full circle and allow me to start to live my life, as I should have for so long. And this brilliant sun that shines behind you as you approach, the light that reflects your inner beauty, it bursts through me, taking with it the uncertainty and loneliness. You will take it all away; you will explain how it will be. The halo of light intensifies as you near. My perfect angel. My saving grace.
And my eyes clear to reveal the truth before me. You have been my world all along. I have sat in a state of dumbfound idiocy waiting for you to free me from my imprisoned soullessness, my empty oneness, my boring repetitiveness that is my life. To sit as a gargoyle in the sunlight for so many years has pulled my spirit to the lowest of lows. And yet here you are, walking towards me, and the glow emanating from you purifies me as only the most blessed water can. I can only hope that I have been saved myself. And then you touch me. The energy I feel in my blood, coursing through my veins, elates me to the highest. The intense orgasm occurring in my mind can only be something that happens once in a man’s life. The light touch of your skin upon my hand, the softness of your white glow, fills me with determination and reverence.
That fleeting moment, that glimpse into my future that has allowed me to see the person that I may be, my partner, my soul mate, has transformed me within that instant. And as the moment passes, you are on your way, away from me, leaving me shivering and shaking where I stand. My love, my darling, where are you going? And I see. You are not mine, nor will you ever be. The hand that eludes me is held by someone else. And I can only hope that this person will venerate the goddess that you are, as I would have. I will not fight to find you again, to hope to steal you away. You are not mine; you belong to another, and this I must live with. There may be another who will glow from the light, another perfect angel, another mother figure who will find me one day. I wait, incomplete, imperfect, until chance has shown its face a second time.